Monday, February 9

DAVID

On Friday night, right before I got into bed, I texted Sammie, I’m sorry. But I hit delete instead of send because the whole thing was an accident, and I knew Sammie would know that, and it would be weird to apologize for something that was just an accident. I texted her about hanging out on Saturday, but she never answered. She didn’t answer last night either when I texted her about the math homework.

So just in case, if she is mad, I’m going to tell her the truth. About how I didn’t mean it like maybe it happened, and about how Luke ruined everything. Because the real truth is that it was all Luke’s fault.

At the bus stop, I joke around with Kyle and Kevin Jenkins, who’re twins and in eighth grade, and even though I can’t exactly hear what they’re saying because there’s a funny pounding sound in my ears, I crack silly jokes and laugh at whatever they say back to me.

When the bus pulls up, I’m planning how I’ll sit in my regular seat, next to Luke, and Sammie will get on two stops later and sit in her regular seat, across the aisle, and I’ll tell the elephant fart joke, and Sammie and Luke will laugh.

Except when I step into the bus, Luke’s in Sammie’s seat, and I know they arranged it this way. They texted each other last night when Sammie was ignoring me, and she likes him and not me. So I walk right to that seat and sit down next to Luke so Sammie can’t.

“How come you’re sitting here?” I ask.

“I just felt like it,” Luke says. “Hey, great game last night, huh?”

I don’t even answer him because he’s such a liar. Instead, I pull out my phone and start playing Candy Crush, and I ignore him the entire rest of the bus ride. Even when Sammie gets on and sits in the front row, next to the bus monitor, which is a really weird thing to do, I don’t say anything.

SAMMIE

It will be like it never happened, I tell myself. And besides, it was just a joke. One of David’s stupid jokes. But when I step up into the bus and they’re both in my seat, I feel like I’ve been punched in the face. The two of them. A team. Ganged up against me. Again.

Without thinking, I sit down in the very first seat, next to the bus monitor.

No one sits in the front seat. Ever. The empty space next to the bus monitor is like the no-man’s-land between two opposing armies.

I turn and look right at her, ready to give her a big smile to show that I’m completely normal and there’s some kind of logical reason that I’m sitting next to her. But she won’t even look in my direction. Every time she stands up to survey the rest of the bus and holler at the kids who are messing around, she completely ignores me.

At school, I shut myself into the girls’ bathroom by the main office, where no one ever goes, until the bell rings for first period.

I make it through the morning, spend lunch in the girls’ bathroom, and am on my way to math when I remember where I sit: right between the two of them. My stomach clenches into a small, hard knot of fear, and it’s not even a lie when I go to the nurse’s office and tell Mrs. Sirkin that I feel really sick.

She has me lie down on one of the cots, and pulls the curtain around me.

As long as I’m lying down and not thinking about math class, I feel okay. But when Mrs. Sirkin pokes her head in and asks, “On a scale of one to ten, how bad is the pain?” the knot returns.

“Seven,” I say. That’s not totally true, but I triangulate between the real-pain score, which is a four, and the fear-of-math-class score, which is a ten.

So she calls Dad. “No fever,” she tells him. “The pain seems to come and go. But Sammie’s not a frequent flyer here. This is only the third time she’s been in my office in a year and a half. I’d give her the benefit of the doubt.”

She hangs up and comes to tell me that Dad has a break in patients and can pick me up in twenty minutes, and I don’t protest.

In the car, Dad waits until I’ve got my seat belt on, then hands me a plastic bin, in case I’m going to puke. “I’m seeing a lot of stomach bugs in the office,” he says. “Usually it’s a twenty-four-hour thing.”

I think about trying to explain what’s going on, but I don’t know how to. I glance over at him. He’s loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. A few white chest hairs poke out.

“David and Luke,” I say.

“Are they sick too? No surprise you’ve got it, then.”

“On the bus,” I try.

A picture pops into my head, of Dad and me at the beach, maybe four or five years ago. My mother and the Peas are lying on towels, all reading their summer beach books and working on their perfect tans. Dad and me? We’re in the water, with our boogie boards. It’s up to my chest, and there’s a giant wave heading straight toward us. I’m scared but I don’t want to show it. Dad shouts, “Paddle, Buddy!” I climb up onto my board, turn to face the shore, and start paddling as hard as I can. But the wave catches me and crashes right on top of me and I’m tumbling underwater, over and over. I’m lost and choking, and I don’t know which way is up or where the ocean floor is. When I finally surface, salt water in my nose and the back of my throat, hair plastered all over my face, Dad is right there, grinning, ready to drag me back out to the deep water and the big waves. And I go.

“What about the bus?” Dad asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “I just—I started to feel sick this morning on the bus.”

He reaches over and pats my knee. “It’ll pass.”